Library Of Lemon Ghosts

Library Of Lemon Ghosts
© Surazeus
2025 05 12

Stuck in glass library of lemon ghosts, 
I browse books bound with masks of long-dead souls, 
then place one mask over my own weird face 
so I dream the life journey of that soul, 
but when I take it off the mask transforms 
into goldfinch that flies into the clouds. 

Lemons on the tree in domed reading room 
glow with the long-dead souls of nameless gods, 
and when I pluck each one they whisper codes 
of secrets in forgotten languages 
which I drink from tall glass of lemonade 
while the goldfinch brings me angel-wing quills. 

Shelves of books arranged in orchard rows sway, 
spines etched with thorny vines of yellow roses, 
and in between them silky leaves drift down 
to mutter confessions of secret hopes 
that people try to hide as they perform 
prewritten roles of gods in ancient books. 

Wearing smooth porcelain mask for her face, 
Librarian Sylvia in breeze-blown gown 
waters lemon tree each morning with ink, 
then files silence of souls who died in pain 
in glass books labeled with their secret names 
till they transform into star butterflies. 

While Ziphion strides long winding corridors, 
storm of paper masks, stained with lemon juice, 
swirl around him till they form new-born books 
printed with invisible text of faith 
that glows in beams of moonlight in the window 
where goldfinches talk shop with butterflies. 

When Ziphion stands before mirror of eyes 
at far end of the philosophy aisle, 
its crystal square does not reflect the viewer 
but masked version of his twin doppelganger 
who sits under the lemon tree of truth 
reading stories to gold-winged cherubim. 

Twisted lemon branches form reading desk 
of open drawers with miniature theaters 
where masked puppets of weird heroic gods 
reenact scenes from books banned by the tyrant 
who thinks satires depict his enemies 
as goldfinches attack him on gold throne. 

Climbing the spiral staircase of stacked books 
on citrus-tree roots where striped pythons writhe, 
Ziphion steps through tunnel of glass masks 
pinned to the walls as screaming butterflies 
that weep ink in jars Sylvia collects 
for children in school to write fairy tales.